


Forgiveness Is A Chore (What Are You Waiting For)

by perilit



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Asthma, Chronic Illness, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Annabelle, Bessie, Blackwater, Colter...all of it weighs heavily on Hosea.Some nights prove more trying than others.On top of it, he can't seem to stop coughing.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 9
Kudos: 36





	Forgiveness Is A Chore (What Are You Waiting For)

**Author's Note:**

> So...I got taken off of my antidepressant and just came out of a week-long withdrawal hell. 
> 
> In the midst of one of those nights, scrolling through Youtube, I stumbled on a side dialogue from Horseshoe Overlook, where Hosea is sitting at a table by himself at night, and Dutch comes over, presumably to try and raise his spirits. At the end of the scene, Dutch pats his hand and LEAVES, and something about that struck me as SO WRONG. Hosea is clearly still morose, and Dutch leaves him there, sitting in the dark. 
> 
> I don't know. It was the first time that I saw clearly, in-game, that Hosea might have his low moments, too. The whole scene just felt...emptier than it should've. I refuse to believe that that much upheaval, fear, and loss wouldn't have lasting effects, ones not solved by a pat on the wrist.  
> Rockstar, give us some solid comfort, dammit, if not for me, then for poor Hosea.
> 
> I fixed it. Kind of.
> 
> *In case you're interested, I'll link the Youtube video I'm referencing in the end notes.

Dusk is well on its way out when Dutch steps out of his tent, spotting Hosea on the edge of camp. 

He frowns at the sight. Night is well on its way, but there’s no lantern on the table beside him, the only illumination coming from the hitching post light some yards away. There’s a telltale droop to his posture, one Dutch hasn’t seen in a while but should’ve expected. Hosea, who is always tapping his feet or twiddling his fingers, is slumped over, coughing listlessly. 

Dutch walks toward him in long strides. “How you keeping, old man?” he asks, pulling a chair up. 

Hosea glances up for a moment at his approach. “Oh, you know. Been better.” he sniffs, his gaze turning to the ground at his feet again. 

Dutch leans forward in his chair, cigar clasped in his fingers. “We have had quite the ride, huh?” he starts, turning toward the older man.

Hosea nods shortly. “Oh yeah. Quite the ride.”

Dutch moves his head, trying in vain to catch Hosea’s eyes. “They ain’t strung us yet,” he tries, and Hosea finally, _finally_ turns to look at him. He wheezes out a cough, shaking his head. “No,” he rasps, “Maybe they never will.” His hand comes up to rest on the table, trembling slightly. 

Dutch’s fingers twitch with the effort it takes not to reach out and take Hosea’s hand. “They won’t,” Dutch says lowly. He shifts in his chair, peering up into the older man’s face. _Look at me_ , he wants to beg. “I’m gonna get us out of this one,” he promises. 

Hosea shakes his head faintly, gaze still fixed on the ground.

Dutch changes tactics. “We have been stuck before,” he forces out a laugh, and Hosea turns to look at him. “You- you remember that mine?” Dutch begins. 

Hosea snorts. “Of course,” he says. “That nauseating popinjay, in that frontier town?” Dutch chortles. 

A laugh scrapes up from Hosea’s lungs. “Of course,” he grates out.

Dutch sobers at the rattle in the older man’s breathing, and he leans forward in his chair, covering Hosea’s hand with his own. “We did it, Hosea,” he says gently. “Whatever else happens...we did it.”

Hosea nods, a faint spark of fondness in his eyes. “I know,” he says softly. 

The lines in his face are sharp in the shadows cast by the light, and Dutch is struck for a moment at how _old_ Hosea looks. Life has not been kind to them, and grief seems to have etched itself firmly into the older man's face. 

_How did things come to this?_ Dutch wonders, a dull ache in his stomach. He tightens his hand around Hosea’s. “C’mon, old girl,” he murmurs, tugging Hosea to his feet. 

He loops an arm around Hosea’s waist, leading them both back to Dutch’s tent. Hosea yields under his gentle direction, letting Dutch steer him. Their feet fall easily in sync, years of stumbling back to hotel rooms turning into a graceless dance. Hosea sits down heavily on the cot, and Dutch takes a seat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush occasionally. 

Through the canvas, Swanson is mumbling drunkenly to Charles. Bill and the others are singing a discordant tune around the fire. The light is muted through the canvas, and Dutch's world narrows down to _Hosea_ , the way his chest is rising and falling slowly, the woody smell of ginseng and the earthy musk of old furs. He looks down at their feet, focuses on the way one of the planks dips down in the middle. Hosea slumps a fraction next to him, his shoulders curling inwards.

Dutch places a gentle hand on his knee. "What's in that head of yours, _schatje_?" 

Hosea lets out his breath in a rush. “I’m...tired, Dutch.” He whispers. His hands are trembling in his lap.

Dutch reaches out, capturing one of Hosea’s hands in his own. “What do you mean?” His voice is soft. 

Hosea is quiet for a moment, his lungs rattling with his breaths. “I wish...I wish those mountains would’a killed me." His face is twisted in a grimace, jaw clenched. 

Dutch’s stomach turns to ice, gripping Hosea’s wrist tighter. The man hisses low in his throat, jerking away. “Don’t...,” Dutch’s voice cracks painfully, and he has to swallow hard before he can force more words out. “Don’t say that.” His voice is no more than a whisper. “You...I almost lost you up there, Hosea, you-”

Hosea laughs bitterly. “Listen to me now, you still might.”

Dutch feels his eyes burn, and he swallows hard, remembering the hours he’d spent awake in Colter listening to Hosea's weary breaths.

  
  


* * *

Dutch stomps snow off his boots in the pre-dawn light, pushing the weathered door open and wincing at the creak of the hinges. Hosea is sitting stiffly in front of the weak fire, fully dressed despite the early hour. He coughs roughly into his shoulder. 

Dutch comes to stand next to him, placing a gloved hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “How you doin', old girl?” He asks quietly, mindful of Lenny dozing in the corner of the cabin. 

Hosea twists his head to look at Dutch. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters. Dutch can see him trembling.

“Horseshit,” he says, firmly. Hosea huffs a breath, his fingers curling stiffly into fists. Another cough wracks his frame.

“For god’s sake, Hosea, let go of your pride for one _goddamn_ minute,” Dutch hisses. 

He offers the older man his arm. Hosea looks at him with distaste but hauls himself upright. He staggers slightly, inhaling sharply through his nose. 

Dutch steadies him with a careful hand, watching as Hosea’s breathing shortens into puffs of air that freeze into clouds in the frigid space. “Easy, I got you, _schat_ ,” He soothes, bracing the blonde with his arm.

“M’ fine,” Hosea snaps.

Dutch doesn’t rise to the bait, feeling how Hosea is leaning his weight into Dutch, the way his knees and ankles click sharply with each step. He steers them through the door and into the cold. 

Arthur passes them on the way, shoulders hunched and his face pushed into the collar of his coat. His eyes pause for a moment at the way Hosea is leaning heavily on Dutch, and his steps falter. “Go on, son, I got him,” Dutch says quietly, mindful of the other men around. Arthur’s blue eyes meet his own, and he nods.

When he pushes open the door, Molly is nowhere to be seen, and Dutch sends a silent prayer of thanks. Hosea shivers harder against him as the faint warmth of the cabin rushes to greet them. 

Dutch steers them to the sagging cot near the fireplace. Hosea’s breaths are whistling audibly in the silence of the room, and Dutch’s blood turns to ice when the sound crescendos. “Hosea,” he starts. 

He’s cut off as a coughing fit erupts from the man. Dutch is at his side without thinking twice, one hand coming up to rub Hosea’s back through his layers. Hosea presses a hand to his chest, his face twisting in pain, his lungs screeching. 

Dutch can only sit there helplessly, murmuring quiet reassurances into the man’s ear as he gasps desperately for air. Hosea grips Dutch’s hand tightly with the hand not clutching at his chest, and his terrified eyes meet Dutch’s. 

The short, wheezing breaths he’d managed to drag in disappear. Dutch’s heart leaps into his throat. “Nonono, darlin', you need to _breathe_ , c’mon,” he begs, pressing Hosea’s back to his chest. Hosea's body convulses, gagging uselessly as he panics. His mouth gapes in an _O_ shape, spit dribbling out of his mouth as he shakes noiselessly in Dutch’s arms. 

Hosea's breath gurgles in his throat, the sound wet. Dutch grimaces. 

Hosea bends forward and spits a glob of mucus on the ground, his elbows braced on his knees. 

Dutch coaxes him upright with a firm hand on his chest. He starts to rub in steady circles, hoping the action will at least provide Hosea with some measure of comfort. 

Aided by the support of Dutch’s hand and the change in position, Hosea’s shallow breaths deepen gradually, the screech in his lungs dying down to a faint whistle. 

Hosea sags against Dutch, exhausted. His face is ashen, tears streaked down his face. Dutch fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket and tenderly wipes away the spit and tears from Hosea's face. The older man closes his eyes, squeezing Dutch's hand. 

* * *

  
  


Hosea lets out a shuddering sigh next to him, and Dutch jolts out of his memories.

The older man slumps forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his face sink into his palms. “Feels like...I could fall right through the floor,” he rasps. Hosea lifts his head, a few coughs grinding through his chest. “I’m _tired_ , Dutch. All this...this mess, it’s....” He trails off, his face turning back into his palms.

"I know, darlin'," Dutch soothes, "I'm trying, I swear, we'll get back to where we were before all of this."

Hosea lifts his head, his eyes blazing, and Dutch is reminded at once of how cruel Hosea can be when he tries. It’s easy to forget when Hosea is plastered against his chest, murmuring endearments in his ear, but here, Hosea is all angles and sharp edges. 

He ducks away from Hosea’s severe gaze as shame and anger both start to weave through his chest. 

"We _were_ close. We should be on property by now, Arthur and I, we were _close_ , in Blackwater, and then that _snake-_ ” Hosea spits. 

“He was following a lead, same as you!” Dutch retorts, chest heaving. 

“And what about that girl? We're shooting innocent women now, too?” Hosea growls.

"I _did_ what I _had_ to, Hosea.” Dutch’s chest heaves, anger thrumming hot in his veins.

“You’re turning into a killer.” Hosea’s tone isn’t even angry anymore, just defeated. Tired. 

Dutch clenches his jaw. “You talk as if killing was something I _enjoyed_." 

"You certainly do enough of it, these-" Hosea coughs harshly, bringing a fist up to his mouth.

Dutch’s anger dissolves as quickly as it’d flared up, leaving him floundering in its absence. He almost lost Hosea. _Still could_ , he thinks anxiously. They've spent so much time being angry, these days. He doesn't remember the last time he'd held the other man out of anything but fear. “I’m...I’m _sorry_ , Hosea. I’ve been a fool, you’re right. I…” He has to stop to clear his throat, eyes burning. "Let me help, darlin'."

Hosea softens, the lines in his face becoming less harsh. "You old fool," he mutters, scooting closer to Dutch and turning against the younger man.

Dutch wraps an arm around him immediately, unable to resist. “I’m sorry, _lieve_. I’m sorry,”

Hosea huffs a small breath against Dutch’s skin. “I know.” he says sadly. He's silent for a moment, stroking the inside of Dutch's wrist idly with his thumb. "I don't want to die, I don't think." His voice is soft, Dutch straining to hear him. "I'm just so tired of feeling…hollow, Dutch, I…" 

Dutch exhales, rubbing an arm over the worn fabric of Hosea’s coat. “Arthur...he’s lost enough for one lifetime.” _And so have we,_ he wants to add. 

Hosea makes a soft sound of agreement in his throat. “And he won’t lose me, too. Not now, at least,” he says quietly, bringing a hand up to scrub at his face.

“Do you want to lie down?” Dutch asks, sensing the man's fatigue.

Hosea nods against him, sitting up to shuck his gunbelt, coat, and boots. Dutch does the same, removing his vest and hat as an afterthought. 

Lying down on the cot, he pats the space next to him. Hosea huffs out a laugh that breaks into a cough, settling down next to the younger man.

Dutch pulls him flush against his back, tucking his nose behind Hosea’s ear. “How you feelin’ now?” he murmurs, running a reverent hand over the man’s forearm.

Hosea sighs. “Like the ground might swallow me up if I let it. But,” he presses a soft kiss to Dutch’s knuckles, his breath warm. “Better, now.” He rolls over in Dutch’s embrace, his gaze soft and open. Dutch shivers, despite the balmy night.

Dutch, heat beginning to coil in his gut, pulls him into a deep kiss. Hosea’s lips immediately part to allow him better access. Dutch licks into the other man’s mouth, and Hosea groans, deep in his throat, one hand coming up to press at the exposed skin on Dutch’s chest where his shirt lies open.

Dutch shudders, burying his head in Hosea’s neck. His cock stirs in his pants, straining against the fabric. He moves a hand to Hosea’s own groin, faltering when he finds the man soft under his fingers.

Hosea laughs bitterly. “Bastard hasn’t gotten the message,” he breathes, letting his hand tangle in Dutch’s dark curls. 

“It’s okay, _liefste_ , you’re fine,” Dutch says tenderly, pressing gentle kisses to the man’s jaw. “Do you want to keep going? Are you...?”

Hosea, who had closed his eyes under Dutch’s ministrations, peers at him from under half-lidded eyes. “I...I can't,” he says quietly, looking away. “Not tonight.”

Dutch frowns at the shame in Hosea’s voice, bringing a hand up to cradle the older man’s face. Hosea closes his eyes again, and Dutch rubs his thumb over the delicate skin beneath his eyelids. “Look at me, ‘sea,” he breathes.

Hosea’s eyes are slightly damp as they meet his, and Dutch’s brow furrows. “ _Mijn hart_ , it’s okay. You’re feelin’ low, we don’t have to do anything.” 

He lowers himself back down from where he’d been propped up on his arms, pulling Hosea to his chest and dropping a long kiss to the gray hair on the man’s head. One hand comes up to cradle the back of Hosea’s skull, the other looping around his waist.

Hosea twists a hand in Dutch's shirt, his fingers worrying the fabric. "Talk to me, _ahuvi_. About anything. I just...need to stop thinkin' for a while."

Dutch stares at the worn canvas ceiling for a moment, flurries of words flashing through his mind. "Do you remember...oh, it must've been a year after we met, and we found that hotel room in Bear Creek?" 

Dutch feels Hosea huff against his skin. "I remember. The raccoons in the walls kept us up all night." 

Dutch grins. "That they did. But I swiped a book off that snippy professor in the street, and we spent the night taking turns reading it." He pulls away slightly to look at Hosea. The older man's eyes are tired but fond. "There's a section in there that stuck with me. I still read it, sometimes." 

Hosea's lips curl up tiredly. "Oh?"

Dutch pulls him close again, unable to resist the pull of the man's skin against his own. He rests his chin on Hosea's hair, reciting softly:

_"And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,_

_O then each breath tasted sweeter,_

_and all that day my food nourish’d me more,_

_and the beautiful day pass’d well,_

_And the next came with equal joy._

_And with the next at evening came my friend."_

The noise of the camp has died down outside, the glow of the fires dim. Someone - Uncle, maybe Bill - is mumbling quietly to themselves. The crickets have begun their symphony in the grass, their steady song filling Dutch's chest with ease. He swallows and closes his eyes, continuing.

_"And that night while all was still,_

_I heard the waters roll,_

_slowly, continually up the shores,_

_I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me, whispering to congratulate me._

_For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night._

_In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams,_

_his face was inclined toward me,_

_And his arm lay lightly around my breast_

_– and that night I was happy._

Hosea's thumb has fallen still against his wrist, and when Dutch pulls away a fraction to glance down at him, the older man's eyes are closed, his face relaxed and calm. 

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "Stay here, tonight. Please."

Hosea's eyes open, and he shifts uneasily. “Molly-” 

"Miss O'Shea will be just fine for tonight. I'm sure Susan and the girls have gotten her set up in a tent already." Dutch's tone is firm. "Now, I'm not leaving, Hosea, and you're not going anywhere unless you _want_ to. _Do_ you want to?"

Hosea shakes his head mutely, and Dutch resettles his grip.

"Then _stay_ , _schatje_." 

Hosea sighs, nuzzling further into Dutch.

“When did things get so complicated?” Dutch wonders aloud.

Hosea huffs a laugh. “When we picked up a dozen more folks, I reckon.” Dutch swats him gently, sobering with his next words. “I _will_ fix this, Hosea. I made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it.” 

Hosea sighs. “I know.” His voice is weary. 

They might never stop running. The law might catch up with them. The end might be bloody and soon, but here, in the quiet stillness of the tent, Dutch can almost, _almost_ fool himself into thinking things will be okay.

Hosea stifles a cough in Dutch's chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Youtube Video (start at 1:07): https://youtu.be/ONS6HF0H0vM
> 
> The research for this one was...interesting. I don't have asthma myself, so I found an mp3 file of someone having an asthma attack on Youtube, and it was simultaneously incredibly horrifying and very helpful. 
> 
> Thank you to platonicharmonics for reviving my love of poetry- I haven't been this amped up about it since my freshman year of college, and it is so nice to explore that joy again outside of academia.
> 
> Dutch's poem is Whitman's "When I Heard at the Close of the Day".


End file.
